


Work Trip

by Ancalimë (Cymbidia)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Gospel of Us (2012), The Passion of Port Talbot
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Metafiction, Staring into the void because I have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 04:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19369750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbidia/pseuds/Ancalim%C3%AB
Summary: An angel goes to Port Talbot during Easter to watch a passion play.





	Work Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I wrote this because I was really touched by The Passion! I moved countries at age 9 so the sense of place and continuity and history was both very moving and also something that I yearn for and likely will never get. *A mournful lol*  
> Also I wrote this because of a thread on Michael Sheen's twitter re:fanfiction and transformative works where he called the play his own fanfic.. I guess I owe apologies to Mr Sheen for butchering his work(s), I have no impulse control.
> 
> Hypertext links lead to footnotes in the End Notes, but if you're on desktop, you can also hover your cursor over the links for the notes in alt-text, I find that to be a lot less jarring than jumping back and forth.  
> Set pre-apocalypse, miniseries timeline.

 

“Crowley my dear, could you cover me this weekend?” Aziraphale prodded guiltily at his chocolate sundae. “I’m scheduled to inspire a change of heart from some loan sharks[1], destined for your lot, but I’ve been double booked for Easter.”

“What for?” Crowley lowered his glasses and pinned Aziraphale with an interrogating Look. “Going egg hunting?”

“Well, ah,” Aziraphale glanced upwards, then winced. “I was supposed to have gone to give some Divine Inspiration for a passion play, but the paperwork got held up like it always does during Lent, and I didn’t get the memo until just now. And it’s for the whole three days too,” he had a mouthful of half-melted ice cream and made a face.

“Ugh, _bureaucracy_ ,” Crowley waved a hand and unmelted the soupy sundae. “But — three whole days? Sounds very… devout.”

“Oh— thank you— yes, yes, very annoying, bureaucracy” Aziraphale said, half flustered and half cross. “But I don’t think it’s actually very devout. I’m supposed to make it less _secular_ , whatever that means. It _is_  a passion play, isn’t it?”

Crowley made a face of sympathetic puzzlement. “I’ll cover you on the loan sharks, but only if you take me to lunch when you’re back.”

“Oh _thank you_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said, perking up at last. “I appreciate it, truly.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Crowley, taking a big gulp of his wine. “No, really. Don’t mention it.”

*

Aziraphale was not a particular fan of passion plays. They weren’t meant to be comedic and pleasant in the first place, but it was quite difficult to immerse himself in the whole atmosphere when he had once stood in the shade of the cross during the original event. Crucifixion scenes always made him nauseous[2]. Well, nevermind that — Himself was in a better place now, no doubt.

The London-Swansea line was convinced to set off at an odd hour, so that Aziraphale could arrive just before things were scheduled to start. As he got off the train in Port Talbot, he found himself pausing.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and spread his senses. The town was still sleeping, and everything was quiet, but the atmosphere was impossible to overlook. There was a slight hint of the usual miasma passion plays produced - a bit of religious enthusiasm, excitement for live entertainment, that sort of thing, but drowning all that out was a kind of intent love and dedication that he had not felt in some time. There was love in this place, and this place was loved.

“How interesting,” Aziraphale murmured.

*

Getting off a bus that had been persuaded to make a beeline from the train station to the beach, Aziraphale found himself regretting not wearing more sensible shoes. Or a scarf. The air was bitingly cold in the grey dawn light, and he squinted against the salty sea winds buffeting his face. There was a gathering of people, and a man was walking into the water.

It had already begun.

Aziraphale hadn’t expected Divine Inspiration would do much, this late in the process, and had mostly thought to miraculously cure a case of stage fright or prevent anyone from forgetting their lines or somesuch, just so the paperwork would line up. But it quickly became clear that this was not the kind of play where the people sitting behind him would tut in annoyance when Aziraphale shouted suggestions at Hamlet during his monologues. Perhaps the conventions of theatre had changed again. Maybe he ought to go see Hamlet some time, for old time’s sake.

There was quite a crowd gathered, and Aziraphale found himself cheerful as he craned his neck to watch the proceedings, almost squished by the thong of humanity.

The was so much going on. Singers and dancers, musicians and actors, children and the elderly. Performer and audience blurred into one, their myriad voices ringing out, saying, _I am here, I am here, we are here._  It went on for days, but never faltered and never stopped being entrancing. It was… _nice_ , to be an observer to such swelling passion. It was nice to be amidst people who could affirm their belonging to their town so. Aziraphale did not have a home to love like that,[3] but he could feel the love suffusing the whole town, and for a little while, he could pretend, and he could know just what it was like to belong somewhere so adamantly and so tenderly, not without question but knowing that there were answers, and that there were people who could tell you the answers, if you only asked and listened. A history, a continuity. Belonging. It was not something he needed, as a celestial being, but that just made it all the more touching.

*

On the last day, as Aziraphale followed along the great procession, nibbling on a sandwich, the Teacher seemed to look at Aziraphale for a moment.

Aziraphale froze. The intensity in the actor’s eyes felt like a great glowing beam of light bearing down on Aziraphale. The soft din of the crowd fell away, and he felt an irrational stirring of terror. The Real Life JC hadn’t even been able to pin Aziraphale with a glance like that. It was too fey, too piercing, too seeing. It was too evocative of being seen by _Her_. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of his reaction. He wanted to cover his mouth. He wanted, inexplicably, to make his wings corporeal and fly away.[4]

Then the world collapsed back into focus as the actor looked away to smile at some singing children, and the moment passed. For all that he wore a crown of thorns, the resemblance to Himself wasn’t physical. It was all in the patience. In this day and age, the willingness to listen was a lot more messianic than the ability to turn water into wine.

Aziraphale threw away the drink he had been nursing, and put his face into his hands. The woman next to Aziraphale suddenly began crying into the crook of her elbow, too busy holding up her camera to wipe her face.[5]

The crowd roared and wailed and cheered as the play was completed. The triumph was palpable. Aziraphale let out the breath he had been holding and headed off to the train station without a backwards glance. He would remember it all, for as long as he continued to exist, past the end of the world, even, but he had no intention of lingering past his welcome. Their prayers were not to angel or god or sweet Jesus gone too soon, but to themselves, a love letter, a memory, a myth made in the telling. No angel was needed, no Divine Inspiration, no celestial meddling to give the story weight. It had very little to do with heaven, and nothing to do the agenda of Head Office.

Perhaps it had something to do with the ineffable plan, but who was Aziraphale to say?

*

“So? How was your trip to Wales? Inspired anyone interesting?” Crowley pushed a slice of cheesecake at Aziraphale.

“Oh, I had a delightful time.” Aziraphale smiled. “But I don’t think my presence was necessary at all. It was all very human, you know. Very lovely and very human. I really couldn’t bear to interlope.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1by this he mostly meant executive officers of predatory loan companies, but that lacked the same panache.[return to text]  
> 2the screaming and the blood usually reminded him of the smell.[return to text]  
> 3Heaven was not really a home, more of a corporate dormitory, and he was not an Earthly being, no matter how much he liked being here.[return to text]  
> 4All perfectly normal reactions to a really good actor doing his thing. While watching the film/the bbc doco/shaky cellphone footage of the production, I personally went feral, wept through a packet of travel sized tissues and a hankie that I hadn't even finished embroidering, and choked so hard on an inhale interrupted by a reflexive sob that I almost died.[return to text]  
> 5Profuse weeping was in the same zip code as divine ecstasy, so technically he did do his job, kind of, not that there weren't other people crying all over the place.[return to text]
> 
>  
> 
> \---------
> 
> Q: Why must films be moving? Is it not enough to sit in my room at 3am and stare at faces on my pc screen, huge?  
> A: Because it is more enjoyable to watch a film through tears so profuse that they fundamentally distort the image you are perceiving. This is an act of remediation and it is considered a common and legitimate fan activity.
> 
> I don't do RPF as like, a general rule so I'm mostly hoping I haven't typed out anything horrendously offensive, not just to, like, Michael or the people in the play or like, the fandom, but also to, like, my eternal soul.  
> Ever since I finished what's hopefully my finals season, I've cared about precisely two things, and those are Good Omens (TV) and The Passion of Port Talbot, so like, this is me trying to express my feelings about a play in/about a town that is on the other side of the world from me but which still managed to touch my dumb 1.5gen immigrant 3rd culture kid no real homeplace self very deeply.  
> @neil-gaiman when are we getting GO audiobook narrated by michael??? pls??? I'm dying!!!!


End file.
